Iris
by Violet Verner
Summary: Or, "Because I know that you feel me somehow." We all know Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have a deep frienship. What if they were conneceted by something else too? NO SLASH! Just read it.


_October 9__th__ 2009_

Captain John Watson never expected it to be _this_ bad. Of corse, he had heard the terrrible war stories of war-his grand-dad fought in WWII- but the past month John had had in Afghanistan made those stories sound like fairy taled. The ammount of soldiers he had threated in the past week alone had went up by at least 25%.

This war only seemed to be getting worse. The army doctor had lost two of his friends already, and the survivor's guilt was sinking in.

_3:00 am_

John's eyes shot open. He usually didn't wake up for another hour or so, but honestly, things hadn't been very usual lately. He ran a shaking hand through his sandy blond hair. He felt for his dog-tag, its coldness giving him a sense of rality. Little did he know of corse that the dreams that started to haunt him now would haunt him the rest of his life.

He knew trying to go back to sleep would be useless. He slipped out of bed, being careful not to wake up his mate, Ben Carlton. He changed into his uniform, trying to put away his dreams. " You're a bloody soldier now, Watson! You can grieve them later," he scolded himself. Mentally slapping himself awake, he made an early start to the breakfast hall, then to the ward.

That day was the most busy in his career as a doctor. Soldier after wounded soldier came in, the blond doctor dashing about to each of them.

By ten in the morning, John Watson's sleeves were red. If he had the time he would have changed and splashed water onto his face to erase the past five hours out of his brain- but that was the thing. He didn't have time. He carried on as more and more men covered in blood and grime swarmed in. _It's going to be a loooong day, isn't it? Fantastic_, he thought. He rolled up his sleeves.

As the day wore on, the doctor sweated buckets. It was only natural- he was working hard and it was 41 degrees Celcius out. More than that though- he had the feeling that something bad was going to happen today- a premination, his grandmum would say. He tried to shake it off, but he couldn't wipe it clean.

"Wearing down, are we, Watson?" a fellow doctor asked, smirking, trying to lightedn the intense mood. " Nope, Chase, I'm alright, thanks. How are you commin' along, then?" he smiled, while wrapping a man's leg. " If this bloody heat would stand of a bit, I'd be better!" They both laughed, taking the chance to be glad for a moment-each laugh nowadays was a blessing, for they were few and far between.

" Yeah, I could use a decent breakfast-" John started, but then the nest patient came in. It was Carlton. His black hair was stained with red. If John Watson's legs were hurting before, then they were about to buckle now.

"My lord! Carlton!" the shorter of the two doctors rand to Carlton's side. It was one of the worst injuries he had ever seen. John was lucky he had sweat near his eyes- he didn't need people thinking that he was a weak captain. But he didn't care about titles now- all he could see was the last of his friends dying in front of him. There was no cure for this severe of truma.

Before the doctor could even comfort his friend he heard, " Watson!" He whipped around an saluted. It was a general. " Sir!" he replied, trying his best to keep his voice in tact.

" Watson, our best marksmen has been shot. We need someone to take his place." It wasn't a question. John almost let his shoulders slump, but caught himself. " Yes, sir," he said, and grabbed his gun.

War raged on. By 2:00 pm, Captain John Watson was sneaking around an adobe- like building with several other soldiers. Out of nowhere, a shot rang out from the ememy. John fell to the ground. His left soldier and leg felt like they were on fire. As he writhed on the dying grass, a few men came to his side. " Hold on Captain!" they said over all the other gunshots that started to rain down. The next thing the doctor saw was darkness.

_October 9th 2009_

_3:00 am_

Sherlock Holmes didn't usually feel_ this_ tired. He was used to staying up this late over an experiment or a case. This week had been a little busy. Lestrade and his pack of idiots down at Scotland Yard had been even more confounded as then usual, so they consulted him.

The detective pinched himself to stay awake. He could usually for a week at a time, but for no good reason, the whole day he had been feeling... he had never felt the feeling before. Like he was being dragged? It was the weird feeling one gets when something is looking at them from behind- like an unseen enemy. But Sherlock thought nothing of it.

As he mixed chemicals in his small apatment, he started to spill. " Oh, for goodness' sakes!" he said, wiping the green liquid up with a towel. His landlord was going to kill him. " Wake up! You are a Holmes! A few more hours, then sleep and maybe some food." he mumbled to himself.

By ten in the morning, the case was solved. He hailed a cab to Scotland Yard. In the cab, he counted cars, deduced the cabbie, slapped his leg, even pulled a lock of his curly hair- anything to wake himself up.

He waked into Lestrade's office and dropped a file on the cluttered desk. " It was the brother, too jelous over the wife," he announced upon arrival.

" What! You got all that in two days?" the silver-haired man exclaimed. " Yes, and how you didn't get it sooner astounds me," the detective replied. " Well, go on," the DI continued, " Explain, then, because Anderson thinks it's th wife." Sherlock sighed. It was going to be a longer day than he expected. Stupid Anderson.

When he finished his explanation, the DI was wide-eyed. " Wow. Well, thanks again, Sherlock. Sherlock?" The dark haired man was already halfway out the door. Lestrade noticed though, that the detective wasn't moving in his normal concise manner. " Sherlock?" he asked again.

"What?" the younger man spat.

" You okay?"

" Fine. Afternoon, Detective Inspector," he replied, then strode out the building, then hailed a cab back to Montague Street. Lestrade knew that that though Sherlock said he was okay, he had probably stayed up the whole case. He also sensed something else was wrong. He shook his head in pitty.

Luckily for Sherlock, he was home by 2:00. He put up his trench coat and scarf, then rushed to the bedroom. Food could wait. His eyes, however, could not. As he slipped on his pajama shirt, he felt a sudden, sharp pain shoot through his left shoulder. Sherlock Holmes was a tough man, but he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Thankfuly, he was already sitting on his bed, because the next thing he saw was darkness.


End file.
